Leave it to fleas: One ruff vacation

Well, folks, I did it. I finally took a vacation day. Singular. One day. And I used it to go visit my family on the west side — my brother, sister-in-law, nephew, stepdad and mom. You know, the usual suspects.

It wasn’t too wild of a trip: stop in Lacey — check. Stop in Tacoma — check. Fresh seafood — check, check, check. I’m sorry, but when you’ve spent enough time eating “crab” that’s actually just dyed perch, you develop a moral obligation to find the real thing.

But this is “A Little Bit of County,” not “A Weekend in the Emerald City,” so I won’t bore you with stories of traffic, toll bridges and overpriced lattes. No, my dear readers, I bring you a tale of something far darker.

Winnie — my loyal sidekick, canine companion, and professional sniffer of all things disgusting — brought home… fleas.

Now, I can’t say exactly where the enemy infiltrated our ranks, but I have my suspicions. My mom’s backyard. We went for what was supposed to be a peaceful little walk, and before I could say “sit,” Winnie found something rotten, rolled in it like it was Chanel No. 5, and strutted back looking quite proud of herself.

Normally, she’s protected by the best flea and tick prevention money can buy. But October — or should I say Octobrrrr — was supposed to be cold enough to freeze out anything with more than four legs. So I may have skipped her treatment this month. Big mistake.

Fast-forward to me now: running on one pot of coffee, two days without sleep, and a combat plan rivaling the D-Day invasion.

Was there a full-scale military operation launched in my home at 0100 hours? Absolutely.

Did I, at one point, yell “We don’t negotiate with parasites!” while armed with bug spray in both hands? You bet your Deet I did.

I’ve been fogging, vacuuming, laundering, scrubbing — if it crawls, it’s going down.

Meanwhile, Winnie has endured more baths than a toddler after finger-painting day. Between the Dawn dish soap, flea shampoo, and the combing sessions, she smells like a lemon-scented bubble factory. She’s giving me side-eye now, probably plotting my downfall.

But I’m not taking chances. I know military tactics, and I’m not above going scorched-earth. 

For those who may one day find themselves in similar combat: the holy trinity of flea warfare is as follows — Dawn dish soap bath, flea comb, and flea-killing shampoo. Oh, and a good sense of humor. You’ll need it when you start hallucinating phantom bites at 3 a.m.

Most folks bring home magnets — Winnie brought me a mission. Life in the country, folks.